SuperWhoLock: Pandora's Box Opens
by Consulting Storyteller
Summary: Strange circumstances force The Eleventh Doctor, Amy, and Rory to team up with the Winchester Brothers and Castiel and head to London to find the only man who might provide some answers: Sherlock Holmes. Little do they know, the consulting detective is in a state of mental shambles due to an impossible murder that he cannot solve.
1. Chapter 1

Hello readers all! So this is my first published fan fiction work. Wish me luck, I suppose? Also tell me honestly what you think please? Anyway, just for a little bit of background on the story, I highly recommend that you be caught up with or at least extremely well versed with all three shows involved: Supernatural, Doctor Who, and Sherlock. There are a couple Supernatural spoilers in case you're not all caught up. In the Doctor Who universe, this story takes place sometime in season 6, while the Doctor is traveling with Amy and Rory. In the Supernatural universe, it is sometime during season 8. In the Sherlock universe, it is sometime after The Hounds of Baskerville, but before the Reichenbach Fall. I wrote it to be as though Moriarty did the events that take place in this story _instead_ of the events that occurred in the Reichenbach Fall. Okay sorry for blabbering on, now on with the show!

Prologue

The night was calm with the sounds of crickets chirping in the warm June air as a warm breeze ruffled the grass they lay in, but the man in the black coat did not care about any of it. He moved silently out of habit, not for fear of disturbing his fellow creatures of the night. No, this was a man who knew the value of always having all of the elements on his side, including the first and most important of all: surprise. Always stay one step ahead. Always plan for every possibility. And never tell anyone everything.

That was how a spider maintained the center of his web.

He strode up to the door of an old dirty motel on the side of the road and gave it a knock, taking a deep breath and beginning to let himself sink into character. It was never hard, and no one ever noticed. Well, most people never noticed, anyway; the ordinary ones never noticed. Those silly ordinary people. The useless and weak. By the time the man heard footsteps from within the room beyond, scrambling to see who it was and pausing when they realized they did not recognize his face, the man had temporarily disappeared into the identity he would now be assuming for however long it took to extract the information he needed.

"Please, I need some help? I was told the two of you could help me. You're the Winchesters, right?"

There was silence inside. Finally, a gruff voice asked, "How did know to come here?"

"An old friend of mine said you could help me if I ever couldn't get in touch with him. His name is Bobby Singer."

There was the sound of the door unlatching and slowly it began to creak open. A pair of green eyes lined with dark circles peered out at him suspiciously.

"You knew Bobby?" the Winchester asked, his hard expression unfaltering but a slight dip in his voice giving his true emotions away. Most people might not have noticed this, but the man in the black coat was not most people. And he prided himself on that. He made sure to assume an expression of utmost concern, though he knew exactly what had happened to Bobby Singer.

"What do you mean 'knew'? Has something happened?"

"Bobby Singer is dead. Has been for months now."

"Oh no! Well this is awful, I… I don't know what to say. I've been in hiding for a few months, and I've been out of touch, I had no idea… I'm so sorry…"

"Hiding from what?" the Winchester seemed tired, but opened the door a bit wider, ready to listen.

"A demon. A powerful one. He's on my tail. I need you to teach me everything you know about hunting them. How do you trap them? How do you fight them?"

"Look… This sounds like a big job. Why don't you leave it up to the professionals? Sam and I, we can go in and take this son of a bitch down for you. It's what we do."

"Oh really? Well that would be wonderful! Thank you, I really can't tell you—"

But the man's words were cut off by a splash of cold water to his face. He blinked for a moment in confusion, fighting down rage that had risen inside him at the indignity. He barely managed to keep it under control. When he opened his eyes, wiping the water away from them, another Winchester was standing behind the first, this one much taller and holding a small flask.

"Sorry, had to check," he said, sheepishly.

"Lesson number one: holy water," the brother with the green eyes told him, poorly attempting to conceal a lopsided smirk. "I'm Dean Winchester. This is my brother, Sam. You got a name?"

"Right, sorry. My name is Jim. Jim Moore."

"Alright. Well, Jim Moore, it looks like we're in business."


	2. Chapter 2

1: The Black Cloud

"And Voila! I give you…"

The Doctor swung the doors of the TARDIS open dramatically.

"Oh no wait, this isn't right."

"I'll say," Amy said, stepping out from behind him and gazing at the flat, grassy landscape suspiciously. "How is _this_ ancient Greece during the first Olympic games?"

"It would appear that we are…" the Doctor stepped out of the TARDIS and took out his sonic screwdriver, a soft breeze blowing up the back of his tweed jacket lightly as he made a twirling motion while holding it in the air and pressing a button to make it buzz. He looked a bit like a drunken ballerina, his lanky legs just barely missing each other as they tangled and untangled themselves again. When he was finished, he brought the screwdriver back down to eye level to examine it.

"Ah yes, it would appear we're in the American Midwest. Missouri, to be exact. Present day. Well, I say present, I mean _your _present…"

"Missouri? Isn't that a state?" Rory asked, the last one to step out of the TARDIS.

"Yes, yes. One of the middle ones," the Doctor waved his hand impatiently. "But that's not important, what's important is… why are we here?"

He knelt to the ground and plucked a stem of grass, examining it as though it held all the answers to the universe in its thin fragile frame. Amy and Rory exchanged a 'here we go again' glance, and Rory began to twiddle his thumbs, nervous for the answer to the question he was about to ask. "What do you mean why are we here and not in Ancient Greece? You think there's a reason?"

"Isn't there always a reason?"

"Right, well…"

Amy cut in over her husband's faltering sentence. "Doctor, can't we ever just go where we intend to? The last time we meant to go on holiday and wound up elsewhere, I got swallowed by a hole in the ground and nearly dissected by green lizard people."

But the Doctor wasn't listening. He'd sprung up suddenly from his fixation on the grass and was now gazing intently at the sky. Over the treetops of the distant forests stretching around the empty field the three stood in, a black mass was moving through the sky. As it drew nearer its details became more refined, and it became apparent that the mass was made up of black smoke that seemed to be crackling with energy. It was absolutely massive as well, darkening the entire sky as it passed above them.

"What the hell is that?" Amy asked, having to raise her voice over the electrical noises being emitted from the cloud. Her bright red hair blew back in the gust of wind that accompanied it.

"I'm not sure…"

The Doctor held up his screwdriver to scan the sky again, this time, as the cloud was right overhead. For a few moments the sky was completely black, and then it was passing away from them, continuing off into the distance. The Doctor took his screwdriver down to examine his readings yet again. It was silent as Amy and Rory waited for him to say something, but he remained still.

"Doctor…?" Amy ventured, tentatively. But all at once he was moving again, springing into step and pacing around in front of them.

"Oh this is bad. This is very, very, extremely not good…"

"Alright well can you let us in on what is so not good about it?" Rory asked in frustration. He had grown as fond of their raggedy Doctor as Amy, but sometimes he just wanted straight answers. Of course, the Doctor rarely had them, and this time was no different.

"Come along Ponds! I think we've found our reason for being here. Follow that cloud!"


	3. Chapter 3

2: The Impossible Murder

It was a spacious room. High ceilings for a flat, permitted by the fact that it was on the top floor. A hallway off to the side leading to a bedroom and bathroom, one window in the bedroom. Two windows visible in the living room. None in the kitchen. Only one door, the front one, with no visible signs of forced entry on the locks, of which there were two: a chain and a deadbolt. No signs of a struggle anywhere around the apartment at all, in fact.

And yet, a man was lying dead on the ground.

"What did I tell you? This one's a head-scratcher," remarked a silver-haired man as he leaned in the doorway, his eyes on the other two men that had just entered and were standing above the body, pulling on rubber gloves.

"What do you reckon, Sherlock?" the shorter of the two asked, looking up at the other. But Sherlock was silent, his calculating eyes scanning the scene: taking it in.

"And you say the door was locked, Lestrade?"

"Yes."

"And yet the locks are still perfectly intact. And the windows?"

"All locked as well. No signs of force there either."

"Did the security cameras around the building catch anything?"

"No, nothing out of the ordinary.

"And the one just out in the hallway?"

"Tampered with. One of the guys in the tech department found a loop in the footage."

"So that was obviously intentional. And that is the reason you're inclined to think this was more than just a man dropping dead of his own accord."

"Exactly."

Sherlock knelt to the ground next to the body to get a better look. The man lay flat on his back. He was dressed smartly: a costly jacket, shirt, and trousers, but not well kempt. There were faint marks of stains that hadn't fully come out in previous visits to the dry cleaners. There was mud around the ends of his trousers and on his shoes, but that made sense; it had been raining the night before his body was found. The decay rate of the corpse matched up to that night. However, the streets all around his building and down the street were paved. For him to have that much mud, he must have gone off the paved roads of London at some point that night. That was certainly interesting. A park perhaps? Or had he been even further out of town?

"Was anything found with the body?" Sherlock asked, not taking his eyes from it. "A suitcase or bag of some kind?"

"Only his wallet."

So it was highly unlikely that he had been out far that night. He would have had provisions. There was also no build up of morning papers or mail outside the flat to suggest to anything regarding an out-of town trip. Sherlock held out his gloved hand. Lestrade gazed at it, momentarily puzzled, until he realized what the detective wanted. He turned and grabbed a plastic bag with the brown leather wallet inside and gave it to Sherlock, who promptly removed and opened it. The ID read Oliver James. Sherlock quickly scanned the contents: no pictures of family, friends, or anyone who might be considered a significant other. No paper money or change, but an unusual amount of credit cards and scratched lottery tickets. Money problems, surely. Money problems that had prevented him from forming or maintaining concrete relationships with anyone else in his life.

"John, medical analysis."

The shorter man, John, took this as his cue to step forward and take a closer look at the body as well.

"Signs of internal bleeding, from what I can tell. But that's it. And it's difficult to tell where the bleeding came from without a full examination. But surely you could tell that, Sherlock?"

Sherlock continued to study the body in silence for a few more minutes. His eyes fluttered across it, then up to the flat around them, then back down to it again. Finally, he spoke.

"He was murdered. Someone was after him the night he was killed. The splash mark patterns up his trousers indicate he was running. Seems like a strange outfit to go out for a nighttime jog in, doesn't it? He was a nervous personality, brought on by his numerous addictions. He would have been easy to scare, and could have quickly run back home due to paranoia. But in this case, he wasn't being paranoid. Someone was really after him."

"What do you mean numerous addictions?" Lestrade asked, watching him closely.

"Look at his button holes. They've been stretched and widened, though the state of the stitching on the rest of the garment indicates that the clothing can't be much more than a month old. Whenever he did his buttons, his hand must have shook, characteristic of someone with an addiction."

"Or just a nervous personality," John pointed out.

"No, there's more. There are numerous stains on his clothes as well, as though he was not careful when he was out gambling, drinking, or a combination of the two, and spilled on himself often. Not to mention the used lottery cards in his wallet. And most likely…"

Sherlock strode over to the kitchen and began swiftly rooting through the cabinets, pulling out bottles of wine, beer, and spirits everywhere. When he took the lid off the trashcan, they were all greeted with the sight of empty bottles of alcohol almost filling it to the top.

"Yeah, I'd say that indicates an alcohol problem," John mused grimly, thinking of his sister.

"So we have someone living an addictive lifestyle with alcohol and gambling, most likely unable to keep a steady job, yet still in need of money to keep up with his cravings. Obviously he turned to the last available option."

Lestrade gazed at him, wonderingly. "Which is…?"

"Crime. This man was involved in a crime ring. How else would he have been able to buy an expensive suit within the past year, while simultaneously keeping up his lifestyle?"

"Couldn't he have gotten help from someone? Family or friends? The government?"

"No, government checks wouldn't be able to buy that suit. And he's not close enough with any family or friends to ask them for that kind of money: no photos around the house, no photos in his wallet. Not to mention why would someone he was friendly with chase him down and kill him? Obviously the same person who gave him money must have been the one he would have problems with as well. Those agreements never end with positive results. Someone helped him. Gave him money in exchange for his assistance. But he must have gotten cold feet," Sherlock paused here and swooped quickly back across the room again to point at the dead man's trousers. "That is why this splash pattern on his trousers indicates he was being chased. This was a hit."

"Well that's all fine and well, but we still don't have any signs of external injury on the body, and no signs of forced entry on the building either. How did they do it, then?"

This answer took much longer to form. Sherlock paced back and forth across the flat with a catlike grace, alternately taking in the corpse and the bottles in the kitchen, and then coming back again. He went back to the door, poking at the locks. He disappeared into the other rooms, and when John leaned over to see what he was doing, he saw him poking at the locks on the windows as well. He returned with a look of greatest puzzlement that was an extremely rare sight indeed on the face of Sherlock Holmes.

There was a little more pacing before he finally conceded, "I need more to go on. Please take the body in for a full post-mortem examination, and let me know what they discover about the exact cause of death."

Lestrade sputtered and rubbed the back of his neck, confoundedly. "I mean… yes… Of course it's standard procedure, so you would have—"

"Thank you, Lestrade."

And with a swish of his long black coat, Sherlock was sweeping back out of the flat and down the hallway. John and Lestrade stood back, staring after him, in a puzzled silence. Finally, John shook himself out of it.

"Right, well… We'll be in touch, I'm sure."

As he took off to follow his friend down the hall, he heard Lestrade call after him, "I'm counting on it!"

Sherlock had grabbed a taxi and taken it back to 221B Baker Street before John could catch up to him. When John walked in, he was standing at the sitting room window, staring at the street below. John tried to speak to him, but he barely even seemed to realize he was being spoken to.

"We'll probably hear back from the morgue sometime tomorrow. Molly will call."

"Mm."

"Have you… got any ideas yet?"

"A few."

Silence. John waited, but Sherlock wasn't elaborating. Finally, John gave up.

"Right, well I'm going to the store. Need anything?"

"Mm."

"Alright. I'll just… I'll be back later then."

When John returned from the store, Sherlock was still standing in the same spot. He appeared not to have moved an inch. He was like a statue, stoic and engrossed in his thoughts. So it was going to be one of those kinds of phases. John was used to it by now. Sherlock would get so excited at the prospect of a brand new case, but sometimes while he was in the midst of one, he required a great deal of quiet time to mull over the facts, and he wouldn't talk for days on end. Although this time… John thought he must have been imagining it, but this time something seemed a bit off. It was so minute that anyone but a very close friend or family member wouldn't have noticed it, but, as it happened, John was the only friend Sherlock had ever had, and he could see: it wasn't just deep thought on Sherlock's face as he brooded this time. If John wasn't much mistaken, it seemed this time as though Sherlock was questioning. As though for the first time in his life, as far as John knew, the great Sherlock Holmes might be drawing a blank.

But John could have been wrong about that of course. And most likely, all would become much clearer to everyone once the report came in from the lab. John thought that call couldn't come soon enough.

Sherlock's silence lasted all the way until it did. But finally the next day, as John was sitting reading the paper while Sherlock maintained his vigil at the window, his phone rang.

"Sherlock Holmes."

John watched attentively, but Sherlock wasn't giving anything away, staring determinedly at the wall and swaying slightly from side to side as he listened to whatever the voice on the other line was saying.

"Yes… Alright…"

But then there was an abrupt change. Sherlock's voice rose above its monotone from before, and suddenly he looked almost manic. John had only seen him get this way once before just a few months ago, when they had been working a case out in Dartmoor. That time, they had faced a mystery that had tested both of their willingness to believe in the impossible, but Sherlock never truly had believed, John knew. Even in his moments of doubt, all Sherlock had needed was more information to uncover the true goings-on of the situation, and Sherlock had known it. Even though his eyes had been telling him the impossible was real, Sherlock had always known that there was a logical explanation behind it all. Still, he had been shaken up, and it took a lot to do that to the consulting detective. But now it was happening again.

"Are you sure?" the detective half shouted into the phone.

"No, no, there must be something else…"

He was up and pacing. He looked slightly mad.

"No, that's it, I'm coming over there."

At this, John perked up.

"What? Sherlock…"

"I'll be there in twenty minutes. I'm bringing John," he snapped the phone shut.

"John we're going to the morgue."

"Sherlock, what is going on?"

But Sherlock already had his coat and scarf on and the front door was banging shut.

"I told you all I can on the phone. It's severed clean through! Just that one vein. Not another scratch on the body. Never seen anything like it, really… I don't know how it could be possible! But it's definitely the cause of death. The vein was severed and he died of internal bleeding. Nasty way to go."

Molly Hooper, dressed in her white lab coat for work, was saying all of it as she pulled one of the metal drawers in the wall open to reveal the covered body within.

"No, you must have missed something. There must be some kind of mark somewhere…"

"Sherlock… there's nothing."

Molly glanced sideways at John as she said this, her voice trailing away slightly. She looked as worried as John felt, but Sherlock wasn't paying attention to either of them. He had fallen upon the body, uncovering it and examining it as closely as he possibly could around the spot that matched where the severed vein was in the X-Rays. But there was nothing there.

"No, no, no. This can't be right. This isn't right. There must be something wrong with the X-Rays."

Sherlock swept back over to the board where Molly had the X-Rays pinned and plucked it off, staring it down with wild eyes.

"Couldn't the vein have just ruptured of its own accord? That can happen sometimes." John was addressing his question to Molly, but it was Sherlock who answered yet again.

"No, John, don't be stupid. You're a doctor; you know that these things don't happen, not like this. A ruptured vein would never look that clean. It's a surgical cut. So why is there no trace of it… on the skin…"

John and Molly exchanged glances.

"I don't know Sherlock. But surely there has to be some explanation…"

The detective looked up, his pale turquoise eyes manic now, wide and desperate. His voice remained at its usual deep octaves, but he spoke quickly, breathlessly, urgently.

"Oh surely there must be. But that's just it, John. There ISN'T."

Now Sherlock was yelling.

"THERE IS NO EXPLANATION JOHN. I have examined every single scenario, every possible option, and every single one leads to a dead end."

John stared at Sherlock on disbelief, hardly daring to believe it. He looked over at Molly again, as if for some kind of consolation: some answer. But she simply shook her head and raised her shoulders into a shrug, indicating that she was at just as much of a loss for an explanation as Sherlock was.

"Alright well… what does it matter if you can't explain how it happened though? You could try to focus on who did it instead. Don't worry about all of this…"

"Actually, figuring out how the murder was committed is a huge part of most murder investigations, as it can help reveal where and why it happened and therefore who might have committed it…" Molly interjected, but upon the withering look John gave her, changed course quickly. "But I'm sure you have enough to go on without that Sherlock. You always solve them, after all. In the end."

Sherlock regarded her for a moment stonily. Then turned on his heel and walked straight out of the room, his coat swishing behind him as the door banged shut. John and Molly were left standing alone, staring after him, dumbfounded.

"Right. Well, thanks, Molly. You've been a big help."

Molly continued to stare at the door where the detective had disappeared.

"No I haven't," she observed. "But then I'm used to that when it comes to him. Good luck with that one. You're going to need it."

"Thanks," John answered glumly. He walked across the room and had one foot out the door before turning around one more time.

"Molly… are you absolutely sure that the kind of injury is impossible? The one on the body?"

"I've never seen anything like it. I've never read anything like it. Part of me is expecting some government officials to come knocking down the door to confiscate the evidence of it any second."

Molly giggled nervously at her own joke, the sound echoing hollowly around the room. She cleared her throat, the smile slipping from her face again.

"Yes. I think it's impossible."

"Okay. Well, thanks Molly. Have a good day."

"You too, John."


	4. Chapter 4

3: Think Outside the Box

"Ergo, draco maledicte et omnis legio diabolica, adjuramus te…"

"Nothing like a good ol' exorcism, eh, Sammy?"

"…cessa decipere humanas creaturas, eisque æternæ perditionìs venenum propinare…"

"Except the thing is… you're the third one this week. And we haven't had that many of you black-eyed bastards to deal with since the apocalypse."

Dean Winchester was pacing in circles around a man sitting in a chair with his arms tied behind his back, while his brother, Sam, stood off to the side quickly reciting an exorcism from an old brown book. A devil's trap shone bright red on the ceiling.

"So my question is… What's going on? Did Crowley open the gates of hell?"

Dean leaned forward, putting his hands on the arm of the chair, rage pulsating through the look he gave their prisoner. The man in the chair gave a snarl and a manic smile, turning his black eyes to face the oldest Winchester. From his other side, Sam increased the intensity with which he was reciting the exorcism.

"…Humiliare sub potenti manu Dei, contremisce et effuge, invocato a nobis sancto et terribili Nomini…"

The demon winced in pain, black smoke beginning to leak from the corners of his mouth. He roared with rage, turning it into a desperate laugh.

"You idiots, you know Crowley can't open that gate. Not yet anyway, not without the other half of the tablet…"

"…quem inferi tremunt…"

He choked. More black smoke sprayed out. Dean planted his stance and fixed him with a glare, unmoving as he watched the demon struggle.

"…Ab insidiis diabolic…"

"THERE'S SOMEONE NEW."

It sounded as though the words had been ripped from the demons mouth unwillingly. Sam froze midsentence and Dean's brow furrowed.

"There is a new leader now. He's building an army, letting as many of us out of hell as he can, giving us freedom again. We can do what we please as long as we are ready to do his bidding if he calls us. We've never had it this good, even under Crowley."

"A new leader, huh? And can we get a name on this new leader?"

The demon laughed. "If you think I'm going to tell you…"

"Sam, finish it."

"Libera nos…"

"_No_," the possessed man lurched forward, gagging as more black smoke shot out.

"We need a NAME," Dean snarled.

"MORIARTY."

Sam stopped again, just before the final word of the exorcism. Dean gave the demon an incredulous look.

"Excuse you?"

"Moriarty. That's him. I promise."

"That doesn't even sound like a real name. Is that a name?"

"That's him, I swear."

Dean glanced over at his younger brother, who shot him a look full of knowing and gave him a nod. He nodded back.

"Finish it."

"Domine."

The demon's shriek of rage was cut off as the rest of the black smoke still left in the man went spewing out of him and down through the floorboards, disappearing beneath them. The man, left alone now, gasped and blinked rapidly.

"Wh-where am I? What's going on?"

"Alright buddy, it's going to be okay. We're going to get you out of here."

As Sam bent down to untie the man, memories started to dawn again on the man's face.

"There… there was this thing inside me for weeks… I couldn't move my own arms or hands… But it did terrible things…"

"I know. But it's going to be okay. It's gone now," Sam's voice was calm, collected, and soothing as the last of the ropes finally fell. The man's breathing became more even and he rubbed his burning wrists. Suddenly, he looked back up.

"It was telling the truth, you know. About that new leader. The name."

"Moriarty?" Dean walked forward again urgently.

"Yes."

"Okay. Thanks so much for the info. Come with us, we're going to get you home."

As Sam helped the man out of the room, supporting the extra weight with his looming frame, Dean followed slowly, taking one last look back at the chair where the exorcism had just taken place before shutting the door.

When the newly-exorcised man had been sent on his way with some extra money and an anti-possession talisman around his neck, the Winchesters were left with silence in the Impala again as they drove for the nearest motel. There wasn't time to make it back to the storehouse tonight, so they would have to make do the old-fashioned way. Dean didn't even turn on the radio, letting the hum of the road beneath the Impala be the only background noise as he tried to sort his thoughts. He could tell Sam was thinking too. He didn't know about his brother, but he wasn't so fond of the conclusions he was starting to draw.

Finally, Sam spoke.

"Dean… This is bad."

"I know."

"No, but really. Have you ever heard of somebody who can hold that much power over that many demons, other than Crowley? Or Lucifer?"

"Yeah, except I have never heard of this guy. _Moriarty_? You're Mr. Research, have you ever heard of any demon or creature _anywhere_ with that name?"

"No. Which is weird. You'd think someone with that much power would have shown up by now. Where was he for the apocalypse?"

"You tell me."

They fell silent again as Dean slowed down and pulled into the parking lot of the motel. When they had paid and dragged their duffle bags inside the dingy room, Sam immediately pulled out his laptop and began typing furiously, while Dean went to splash cold water over his face, still trying to clear his head. It was getting late, and he was starting to get tired. When he walked back out of the bathroom, Sam was still sitting staring at his computer screen intently, brow furrowed.

"Finding anything?"

"Yeah, actually. But it doesn't really make much sense."

"Sounds like our M.O, then. Hit me with it."

"There has been a Moriarty in the news recently, or in the news from England anyway. Jim Moriarty. Arrested a few weeks ago on a ton of murder and theft charges. He broke into the case where the crown jewels are kept in Buckingham Palace, while simultaneously opening a vault at the Bank of England _and_ unlocking all the cells at Pentonville Prison."

"How did he manage that?"

"The report says he used his cell phone. He must have a pretty big network."

"But it he's human?"

"I mean… yeah. There's nothing here that seems to indicate otherwise. I mean, what he did was crazy hard to do, but not impossible for a normal person with a lot of connections in the crime world…"

"Is there a picture?"

"Yeah. There's one in the article. They took it in the vault when he broke into where the crown jewels are hold on, let me… oh."

"Oh what?"

"Just… just look."

Sam turned around his laptop and Dean leaned forward to get a better look at the picture. There, an unsettling, serene smile on his face as he sat wearing the crown and holding a scepter, was the same man that had come to their door asking for help mere weeks ago.

"Jim. That's Jim. But we helped him! He said he knew Bobby. He wasn't even British or whatever… His said his name was Jim Moore, right?"

"Yeah which is only a few syllables away from Jim Moriarty."

"Okay so we're dumbasses. But why did he trick us? What did he need us for? All we did was take down a demon for him."

"I… I don't know," Sam shrugged, staring at the picture. Dean looked back at it again, noticing something new.

"Hey, what's that he wrote on the glass?"

Sam narrowed his eyes.

"I think it says… 'Get Sherlock'."

"'Get Sherlock'? What's Sherlock? Isn't it like a poison or something?"

Sam turned his laptop back and his eyes started skimming the screen again.

"I think you're thinking of hemlock. Sherlock is, apparently, a person. It says here that Sherlock Holmes was the name of one of the people who testified against Moriarty in court, but Moriarty got off anyway."

"So Moriarty might have something against this guy."

"I guess so."

"But why would he tell the police to get Sherlock? He was acting like he wanted to be caught…"

"No idea."

"This trial happened a few weeks ago. That's not long before he came to see us. So why would somebody who is the head of a crime ring try to steal the crown jewels, get acquitted in court, and then immediately come find us with some phony story about being in trouble so we would kill a demon for him? And now some other demon is telling us that he's the new big scary demon ruler?"

"And what does Sherlock have to do with any of it?'

Neither brother seemed to be able to come up with an answer to any of their questions. Dean scratched his head in frustration and turned around, beginning to think it might be better to go to bed now and figure out the rest in the morning, but he was stopped short by the silent and abrupt appearance of another man right in front of him. He jumped.

"Dammit Cas!"

The angel blinked at him, but did not apologize. Instead he stepped forward in urgency, worry furrowing his brow.

"Another important artifact has gone missing. Straight from under the noses of the current heavenly order."

"Cas, if this is another freakin' tablet…"

"It is not a tablet. Actually, temporarily, the tablets have been put on secondary priority while everyone has been dispatched to look for this instead. It is considered top priority and its disappearance could mean the entire world is in danger."

"Oh good, because it wouldn't be a normal day if the entire world wasn't about to eat it."

"This is a serious matter, Dean, we don't have time for your—"

"What exactly is missing, Cas?" Sam cut in.

"The box."

"What box?"

"The box. The box that unleashed it all."

The Winchesters stared at him blankly.

"_Pandora's_ Box."

Finally, the weight of the situation registered with the brothers. Or at least, it registered with Sam, whose eyes widened.

"Pandora's Box is real?"

"Well it's really more of a jar, the box thing was a mix up in translations some thousand years ago…"

"What the hell is Pandora's Box?" Dean demanded.

"In Greek mythology, the titan god Epimetheus was given the first woman in creation, Pandora, to marry. She sort of came with this box—"

"Jar."

"-Sorry, Cas- a jar, which contained all the evils and hardships of the world. She was commanded not to open it while her husband was away, but she did so anyway out of curiosity and wound up unleashing all of the terrible things inside the jar upon the world. The only thing still left in the jar by the end was hope."

Sam finished his story to a look of incredulity from Dean. "Seriously, man, I will never figure out how you remember all this stuff."

Castiel ignored Dean's comment, addressing both brothers, "this part has not passed through into modern tellings of the myth but the jar was actually a gift to Pandora from Lucifer. The ancients interpreted the jar as letting out all the evils of the world, but in actuality the jar had the ability to summon and control demons to do the bidding of whoever summoned them."

"How many demons?" Dean asked.

Cas fixed him with a grave stare. "The possibilities are endless. The person who possesses the jar could raise a whole demon army of their own."

"Wait…"

Sam and Dean exchanged a glance.

"Cas, we know who took it."

At that very moment, there was a loud knock on the door.


	5. Chapter 5

4: The Search

Amy and Rory lost track of how long they trailed after the Doctor down a long nearly deserted highway. When they finally walked into a roadside diner miles later, they were both panting, while the Doctor himself looked completely fine.

"Okay," Amy breathed, glaring at him. "I need food."

The Doctor did not protest as Amy and Rory sank into seats at one of the old ratty booths and pulled out menus, but rather he wandered off to speak to a table of truck drivers. Neither Amy nor Rory could hear what he was saying, but they watched as the truckers glanced at each other and snickered when he first started speaking. Then all at once, the smiles dropped off their faces to be replaced with grave stares. They started nodding. One said something to the Doctor, whose brow was furrowed in concern. He nodded back at them, taking in what they were saying. Then he thanked them and left, moving onto the next table.

"So do you think we're going to find out what that cloud was soon?" Rory asked, barely masking the exasperation in his voice.

"I'm hoping that's what he's doing. Because if he's just dragging us around on some wild goose chase I'm heading straight back to that TARDIS and not coming back out until we've landed somewhere else."

A waitress with a kindly wrinkled face and a slight southern drawl to her American accent came by to take Amy and Rory's orders, and finally the Doctor came back.

"I've asked them to turn on the television for us."

Sure enough, a television hanging from the ceiling above flickered to life, but all it showed was a man dressed in a red and white uniform holding a bat and waiting for another man to throw a ball toward him to hit. It was like everyone at the tables came to life, their faces turning up to the screen. When the man swung the bat and failed to connect it with the ball, everyone groaned.

"Oh no, no, this isn't right…" the Doctor muttered. He swooped away again, said a few more inaudible words to the waitress, who at first looked resistant but then walked over to change the channel. Everyone groaned.

"Hey turn the game back on!" one of the truckers yelled.

"Sorry, everyone, this will just take a moment! I need to see if…"

But the Doctor's voice trailed off as a commercial ended and electric guitar action music announced the return of the news. They were just in time. A blonde woman sitting behind the news desk and wearing too much make-up started speaking.

"Multiple sources are reporting sightings of an unusual black cloud traveling quickly in the sky today. Although it has some of the appearances of a storm cloud, its movements do not appear to be of the usual kind. We take you now live to Chip Barney for more on the story."

The picture switched to a smartly dressed man standing in the middle of a field that could have been anywhere, looking relatively calm.

"Thanks Cindy, I'm here in a field just outside of St. Louis that is expected to be the next location where the cloud might be spotted, according to scientists who are attempting to track the strange phenomenon. One of those scientists is here with me now. Mr. Clark, can you tell us what your research team has discovered so far about the cloud?"

Mr. Clark was a stocky man with a rumpled, stained shirt and thick-rimmed glasses tipping precariously on the edge of his nose.

"Yes Chip. We haven't been able to gather much on it yet because it's such a new phenomenon, but part of this has to do with the fact that it truly seems to have popped out of no where! Sightings go back to this morning in Carthage, so that is the assumed epicenter, although this can't be confirmed for sure, it's mostly just theorizing. We're going almost entirely off of sightings at this point, but we think we're starting to be able to chart its movements. It appears to be heading east."

Suddenly, Mr. Clark fell silent.

"Do you hear that?" he asked Chip Barney. Chip nodded. But whatever it was they were hearing was lost through the television screen. Amy and Rory exchanged a glance. Then the camera panned up and there it was again: the very same black cloud that had crackled above their own heads not too long before. It had already moved halfway across the state.

"Our instruments are going off the charts!"

The cloud got closer and closer, and the yelling of the reporter and scientists became overtaken by the roaring noise that could finally be heard even through the camera. Then just as the entire scene reached a deafening pitch, the camera feed was cut and with a fizzling noise the screen went to black. They could hear the voice of the first reporter now. "Chip? Chip? We seem to have lost his feed…"

Everyone in the diner was now muttering to each other nervously. The Doctor wrung his hands, pacing back and forth.

"Carthage. Amy, Rory, we need to go to Carthage."

Just then, their food came. The Doctor looked pained.

"Ohhh can't you take it to go please?"

"Don't you have a time machine?"

"We can't back to the TARDIS just yet, me must go straight to Carthage."

Amy sighed. "Fine." With a pointed look at Rory she left money on the table, stood up, and grabbed the cheeseburger off the plate. Rory looked extremely hesitant but finally rolled his eyes and stood up as well, grabbing his food.

"Excellent! Now we just need a ride…"

Before Amy could utter another exasperated word, one of the truck drivers the Doctor had befriended at the other table walked by, overhearing the final sentence.

"Where to?" he asked, walking over to them.

"Carthage."

"I can take y'all over to Carthage. Does this have to do with that cloud?"

"Yes. Although it's really best if we don't go into too much detail on it."

The man fixed him with a serious look. "'Kay then. Name's Bob. I'll get you there in about an hour."

The ride to Carthage, Missouri in the back of a flatbed truck was far less than comfortable. The Doctor, Amy, and Rory were forced to take seats amidst piles of boxed dried food goods and hold on the best they could for the occasional bumps in the road that shook the entire vehicle.

"Well?" Amy asked, when they seemed to have finally hit a smooth patch of road.

"Well what?" The Doctor's eyes were darting around, as though he were afraid to look back at Amy's or Rory's.

"Are you going to let us know what we're chasing finally?"

"We're chasing the black cloud! I thought that was obvious, Amy."

"No, Doctor, you know what I mean. What _is_ that cloud?"

The Doctor sighed, and finally met Amy's eyes with a grave look.

"You're not going to like it?"

"Well I don't like a lot of things we wind up dealing with, but it's still important to know what they are, at least."

"This time is slightly different."

"How so?"

The Doctor hesitated for one more second, trying to shield them from the truth for as long as he could. But finally, the moment had come.

"I've fought the source of them before. They have been on earth just as long as humans have, if not longer. They don't really have a name other than the one humans have given them."

"Which is…?"

"Demons."

The Doctor paused after this dramatic statement, as though expecting an equally dramatic reaction. Amy blinked.

"Okay."

"Okay? That's all you have to say? Okay?"

"Vampires in Venice? A siren on a pirate ship? We're used to it by now, Doctor."

"Oh… well… very good. I suppose." He looked disgruntled but pulled himself back together. "At any rate, we need to get to Carthage and look for anything that looks like it might be a clue as to where the source of the activity might be located. If we find the source, we also might figure out how best to go about sending them back to it."

Another hour and a few more painful speed bumps later and the Doctor, Amy, and Rory were all dropped off in Carthage.

"Thank you, Bob! You're a very kind person!"

"No problem Doc. Give 'em hell!" Bob called back as he drove away. The Doctor waved.

"What nice sentiments. Lovely person, that Bob"

"Okay Doctor, so what are we looking for?" Rory was already looking around, taking in the town: of which there really wasn't much. There was a big courthouse rising above every other building, many of which looked more well-worn. Past Main Street, rows of houses could be seen branching off. As far as small Midwestern towns go, it wasn't anything different.

"We need to keep our eyes out for anything… unusual. Anything… demon-y."

"Well that's all nice and specific isn't it?" Amy rolled her eyes.

"Maybe it would be best to figure out where to start?" Rory suggested.

"Yes, yes, brilliant thinking Rory! Let's stick around downtown at first. We need to be someplace where people might be talking. I want you both to have your eyes and ears on full blast. Listen for anyone who might be saying anything or doing anything related to this whole business…"

"Like them?"

Amy had noticed that a group of three men walking in the opposite direction in front of them, about to cross their paths. The tall one was handing the man in the middle an odd, pentagram-like pendant on a chain and telling him to put it around his neck.

As the men passed Amy, Rory, and the Doctor without looking up at them, they heard him say, "Wear this. It will protect you from any more demon attacks. Dean and I are going to give you some money too, so you can make it home…"

The trio exchanged shocked glances and, perfectly in sync, turned to keep their eyes on the men as they passed them, walking away. Amy and Rory looked at the Doctor for orders.

"Geronimo," said the Doctor with a nod, and at once they were off down the street following the men.

All went smoothly for a while. Amy, Rory, and the Doctor managed to keep their distance yet keep the men in sight, but once one man had dropped one off at the bus stop, the other two headed straight for an old car: a black Chevy Impala. From the 1960s. After exchanging panicked glances, the Doctor motioned his companions over to a motor scooter someone had left on the side of the road.

"We are _not_ stealing that!" Rory shouted. But Amy was already crawling on behind the Doctor. He clicked the sonic screwdriver and the vehicle buzzed to life.

"Ohhh…. Fine…" Rory groaned, rolled his eyes, and jumped on it behind Amy as well.

"Don't worry Rory, we have a time machine, remember? We'll return it!"

They pulled out onto the road a respectable distance behind the Impala and followed it as it left Carthage and got onto the highway. The occupants of the car didn't seem to notice the little scooter trailing them despite the fact that the highway was rather on the small side and there weren't many other vehicles accompanying it with them. The Doctor seemed to be keeping just the right distance between them to avoid suspicion. Finally, after a relatively short time on the highway, the black car pulled off again, into the parking lot of a small roadside motel. By the time the Doctor, Amy, and Rory pulled in, they just saw the door to one of the rooms closing as one of the men disappeared into it.

"They went in that one!" Amy pointed out, not about to let the door slip from her memory. "Let's go!"

"We can't just go barging in there, they'll think we're mental!"

"Rory has a good point. We need to gather our thoughts out here first. Decide exactly how we want to go about this. So… how do we want to go about this?"

"Well they know about demons, apparently. Seems like we can't say much more that would shock them," Rory stated with a shrug.

"True."

"But do we tell them about you Doctor? Do we mention the whole… you know… alien thing?"

"Well it might be for the best to leave that fact out of it right at the beginning. Although it will probably have to come up at some point. After all, if they know about demons… I'm not sure how much else they know…"

They took awhile longer to prepare themselves. They agreed that it might make the mysterious men less abrasive of them if they'd had a bit to settle in before the time-travelers burst in on them. But finally, the Doctor sprang to his feet from the dirty old bench he's been sitting on.

"The moment is now! Come along Ponds!"

Together, the three of them approached the dingy door and the Doctor raised a fist to knock sharply.

They waited.


End file.
